The Savannah Situation Pt. 02

Now, with chapters. Thanks to those who commented and voted on part one, and thanks for enduring the pace, too. The pace is somewhat similar here...until it's not. Father-daughter fantasies are my fave but when I've thought about writing one, the power dynamics and sky-high real-life potential for hurting the daughter made me feel like I couldn't suspend my disbelief enough to write one (although I can definitely suspend my disbelief enough to enjoy them). So this is my attempt to write one that substantiates the underlying buy-in that (most of) these fantasies have: that it's all fine and ultimately healthy and no one's getting hurt. Hence, a very chaste pace, at least initially. I hope I'm succeeding! Thanks for reading. There will be a third, probably final, part.

*****

Chapter 1

My thinking on the drive home was along these lines: 'Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck you, Chris. There's something wrong with you. Fuck you, you fucking asshole.' I guess I'd been hoping all the self-loathing would work on my cock but it didn't, and when I parked on the street in front of Marcus's house, I was still hard. I adjusted myself so if Marcus wasn't paying too close of attention when I went inside he wouldn't be able to tell.

I'd acted like a deceptive teen when I'd left at 20 to 10, offering up an explanation without being asked. Savannah had a spider she wanted me to get rid of because she was just that scared. I think Marcus believed it, although when he said, "Okay, man," he made it sound like she was just looking for an excuse to get me over there and I liked being able to be her big protective daddy. Not a moniker I was into, but when I thought about keeping her safe I liked the idea.

So now it wasn't even 11, it was barely past 10:30 by the time I got home, but I'd been hard for a while now and I needed it to change, quick. Inside, Marcus was on the couch with Marsh on his lap, who chuffed when the door opened but didn't get up to guard against the intruder or anything.

"Spider crisis averted," I offered, and Marsh looked at me and his tail wagging picked up. When I stalked past the living room to the basement stairs, he lost interest. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Marcus."

"Yeah, okay. Goodnight, man," he called after me. The annoying thing about Marcus's house was if you didn't count the basement, it was just one story, and it had only one bathroom, and I couldn't go in there and jerk it with him 20 feet away on the couch. And they were watching another nature show, this one about vultures, who do some straight up nasty things. Although I was aching by that point and I'm not sure what could've killed my erection coming through the bathroom wall. I probably should've sat there and watched the vultures eating decomposing animals and shitting on their own feet and vomiting mid-flight, given it a chance to make me not want to come at all.

I was bargaining with myself now, that maybe I could have these thoughts and desires about her but as long as I didn't do anything, I was still a good father. I mean, she'd shown me a pair of breasts that looked like they would sit perfectly in my hands and that came to a sloping point that could slide right into my mouth and I was still a man. 'It's your fucking daughter's breasts,' was what I thought next.

I was still a man and I was still a father and the way it felt anymore when it came to Savannah was the two weren't so mutually exclusive. It wasn't a good way to feel, even if, generally speaking, you had to be a man to be a father. It disturbed me that I might've wanted the two parts to blend like that. I don't know if it's in every man, but it was in me.

In the basement, I sank into the couch, got up and turned on a lamp and turned off the overhead because it was too illuminating, and unbuttoned my jeans. I thought about that last time with Julia, how she felt on my dick and what she looked like coming on top of me, and I guess if I had to categorize how that felt in that instant I'd file them under 'fond memories.'

It was like I was ardently not thinking of Savannah and not thinking about anything but Savannah at the same time. There was a subconscious part of me and it didn't listen when I tried consciously not to think about her. I was always very aware how much I was trying not to think of Savannah, so she was as good as there anyway.

I think it was that thing inside me that generated this thought: 'You sat down knowing your daughter was about to strip for you. Your moral standing is built on sand, so don't pretend you don't want to think about it.'

When I came, I wasn't thinking about Savannah's dance or her ruffled panties or her nipples, I was thinking about sliding my tongue into her begging pussy and tasting my Babygirl's desire.

Chapter 2

Everything was disturbing. What I wanted, what I let Savannah do in front of me and to me, what I was starting to do to her. But coming thinking about how my Babygirl's pussy tasted really fucked my head up. I didn't call her Babygirl much anymore, it was mostly from when she was little, but she was still my Babygirl, and that's how I was thinking of her when I came. Not her as a child, or anything; the thought of her as a child would've killed that boner for sure and I was pissed I didn't think of it in time. But the fact I'd been thinking about it like that, not that I had my tongue in Savannah's pussy but that I was putting my mouth on my Babygirl's sex, made me nauseous.

But if that weird masturbation session produced anything useful, it was that I decided I'd look at Savannah and picture her as a little girl from now on. It would stop the desire outright, at least in person, which was the most important time to stop it. Savannah was my little girl, ultimately, and that was an incontrovertible fact regardless of her age. I just needed to be reminded that's who was standing in front of me, not just a stone cold knock out who felt right when I hugged her.

If she didn't call me and I didn't call her, I couldn't be faulted. If she'd tried to get a hold of me and I blew her off, then I'd be an asshole. I knew it would be a while, but she would call. Before she'd try to get my head back in the game. So I just worked in the late August heat spreading hot asphalt on asphalt that was a little less hot and it felt a lot like hell, which seemed right.

If Marcus was pissed I'd been there for six weeks, he didn't say anything. I wasn't even looking for a place and I didn't know why, I just kept taking up his basement and working and watching nature shows with him and Marsh. I kept his fridge full of beer and paid for food we got delivered and played fetch with Marsh in the backyard and I even felt bad enough I'd go and clean up after Marsh in the backyard, which Marcus never asked me to do or anything. So I hoped that helped, but it didn't alleviate my guilt much. I guess I felt guilty about everything, for what I was doing.

Savannah's classes were about to start and it had been three weeks since she asked me to come over at 10 at night and I didn't want her to embark on this new chapter without a supportive phone call from her father, so I called her after work on a Tuesday as I drove to Marcus's.

"Hi," she said, and I could hear the glum in her.

"Hi, honey. I'm sorry I took so long to call you," I said. I gave her space to respond and she didn't. It honestly only occurred to me then how shitty it was for her to have done that dance and then I didn't even text or call her afterward. "School starts tomorrow, right? How you feeling about that?"

"I'm looking forward to it. I'm hoping I can meet some people there. Get some semblance of a social life again," she said.

"Yeah, that'll be good," I offered. It was a pointless thing to say. "You doing all right?"

"Sure, Chris. I'm doing fine."

"You don't sound that fine, Sav."

A long silence. "Do you want to say a few words to make you feel better before you hang up and disappear?"

I sighed. "No."

"I'm not going to give you just enough to make you feel like you're doing something. It makes me feel like that's all you care about. Doing enough to tell yourself you've done enough so you don't have to feel too bad or do anything hard," she said. "This is the first time I've ever felt like I had a deadbeat for a dad."

Goddamn if she wasn't insightful. I wish I could've given her a speech that made her feel like I was solely being honorable, but that wasn't it. I was trying to be honorable. I was also scared and disturbed and missing her so much, all the time. Wanting her. Those two are the same, ultimately.

It took me a while to respond. "I don't know what to do, Savannah. I don't know what to do with what I'm thinking about you and how I feel when I'm with you and what I wanted at your place the other night. I'm not trying to hurt you, Babygirl. I'm trying to keep you safe from me."

"I don't need you to keep me safe from anyone," she said. It was gentle. "I like how you make me feel. I like how you were looking at me. And I love how safe I feel with you."

"I thought you didn't need to be kept safe."

"I don't. But that doesn't mean I don't like feeling safe with a man. And I've never felt safer than when I'm with you, Chris," she said.

I was at Marcus's so I put the truck in park, put my forehead on the steering wheel and closed my eyes, and thought of Savannah when she was a child, phone still pressed to my ear. "I'm glad to hear it, Babygirl."

"I don't want you to call me that."

"Okay."

"Would you come over tonight?" She could've couched it in a night-before-school-starts pretense, like the occasion was why I'd be going, but she never was interested in self-delusion.

All I was thinking was that she'd liked the way I was looking at her and all I knew at that moment was that I wanted to look at her like that more. It was like, for a split second, I knew I could give her exactly what she wanted and only I could give it, and it was a powerful feeling. "Yeah, all right," I said. "I just got home. I gotta shower, then I'll head over."

Now I could hear the smile in her voice. "I can't wait."

Chapter 3

You can see what I mean. When I wasn't in contact with her, it was easy to keep things from happening because I did an all right job blocking it all from my mind. But as soon as I was, I felt brainwashed. Not by her. By my goddamn id. Or maybe I mean ego or super ego, I can never remember. But it felt innate, answering a truth in her like a call to action, and fuck everything else. I had to be one fucked up id to want her how I did. So I never said no.

When I got there she was wearing a slouchy tan cashmere sweater that hit her mid-thigh and these black leggings that may as well have been a second skin. I thought she looked a little nervous when she opened the door and told me to come in.

"Hi," I said, and though she'd hesitated at first, she hugged me now and I hugged her back. I don't know if it felt any different to her, but I was holding her to me the way I did women, and I felt her fingers in my hair at the nape of my neck. We just stood there like that and it was as intimate as it was emotional to hold her like I was. "Jesus, I've missed you."

"I missed you, too," she murmured, and I thought I was going to start boning up so I let her go, although when I did I let my hands slide down her sides and rest on her hips for a second. I didn't forget about looking at her and picturing her as a child. I just didn't want to when I was there. "You hungry? Did you eat?"

"Not yet," I said, and I gave her a slow smile. "Guess I just wanted to get over here."

It made her smile too and she took my hand and pulled me toward the kitchen. "Want to make something with me?"

"Sure. What'd you have in mind?"

"I have stuff for pasta. We can make a fresh tomato sauce and I'll make a salad, it'll be fast. What do you think?"

I thought it sounded great, so she dug around in the refrigerator and came up with tomatoes, garlic, onions, mushrooms, butter, and some herbs I never could've named. We prepped it all together, and the onion made her eyes water when she cut it. She kept swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, but her hand was all oniony and it just made it worse.

"Lemme help you, Sav," I said. I tore off a paper towel from a roll on the counter and cupped her chin and dabbed the paper towel against her tears, and she closed her eyes and tilted her face up like she was basking in it. Now her mascara was smudged and it looked good, like she'd just gotten out of bed.

"Thanks," she said, and smiled when she turned back to the prep. My elbow was brushing up on her arm some and I had no idea the elbow could be an erogenous zone but it was sure working that night.

When we were done cutting all that stuff up, she told me to get a pan and what to do with it all and I started on it while she dealt with the pasta and finishing the salad. I didn't have to do much, just stir it and make sure nothing burned. "You ready to dive in tomorrow? I hear medical school's pretty exhausting."

"Whatever, I'm not worried." She was so nonchalant about school, like it was never hard for her, not even med school. Maybe it wasn't. "But I expect to be pretty busy."

"What's the name for the kind of studying you're doing again? Preclinical?"

"Yeah. So not a lot of hands-on patient stuff in my future," she said.

It's strange seeing your daughter do so much better than you. I felt like I was watching a sprinter running away from me on the track, faster than I could ever think of catching up to. It made me happier than anything, even though I felt left behind, too. Like she was growing past me. "You're amazing, honey. You get busy and need anything, lemme know."

She paused in her carrot cutting to look at me. "Do you mean that? Because I didn't hear from you for three weeks."

Maybe this was the point of no return. "I mean it, Savannah. And I'm sorry for that."

She put her vegetable and knife down and crossed to the stove. "Let me taste it."

I brought a small spoonful to her lips. "Careful, I think it's hot."

She blew on it briefly, then parted her lips and I tilted the sauce into her mouth. By the time I put the spoon down, she was pressing into my side, her head on my shoulder. "It's good. Let it simmer while I finish the salad."

I covered the pan and watched Savannah working on that salad. Her slouchy sweater had shrugged its way almost off one shoulder, exposing a tawny crescent of skin bowing to her neck. It looked so smooth and sanguine warm I wanted to feel it on my lips so I walked up behind her and put my hands on her hips and rested my temple on the side of her head, like an experiment.

She stopped cutting, nearly froze, and I almost let go but she whispered, "I like that, Chris," so I changed my mind. I pulled her hair back from that exposed shoulder and she tilted her head away, offering her neck right up, but it was still that crescent I wanted to feel.

After a moment, I lowered my mouth to her shoulder and pressed my lips against her skin. She was warm and I stayed there for a long second. "Do that again. Please," she whispered, eyes closed.

So I did, except I moved to her neck this time, and I buried my fingers in her hair to cup her head so I could hold it in place. Hold her neck against my mouth so I could feel the warmth of her pulse. I took a deep breath, took her in, and she was so familiar and sweet in scent that I wanted to hold her tight against me, immerse myself in it and feel her body respond to me like mine was to hers.

When I took my lips from her neck, she turned to look at me. And she looked scared, but I didn't get the sense she was afraid of what I was doing. I think she was afraid I was going to run off again. "I think I could kiss you right now, Savannah," I said quietly.

"Really?" she whispered. She looked a little surprised. But pleased. "I would love that."

It was like I was doing these things before I knew it. Not like they felt so natural it was easy to fall into and I was doing them before I knew it. Like there I was holding her hips and kissing her neck before I realized I was doing anything at all. I'm not trying to pass the buck, that's just how it felt at the time. It was like I was in a daze with her.

I think if I hadn't said anything at all I would've been able to do it. But the break in action was enough for me to get uncomfortable, to suddenly feel like it was quicksand I was in, not a daze, and I was going to drag her under with me. "You know what, I can't. I'm sorry. I can't do it, Sav."

Savannah looked let down for a second and then nodded. "Okay, Chris. I understand."

She didn't seem even a little worried that I was closing the door on anything happening, but I think she knew I was a goner before I did. "Please don't leave," she said. "Just have dinner with me, at least. You don't have to go."

I would've been running away from the object of my desire, but I couldn't run away from the desire itself. That was in there, and I thought maybe it had been a seed that got watered and was now planting its roots down through me and growing up into me. So I told her I would stay.

Afterward, she asked if I would have a beer with her on the couch, and I said I would. It felt different in the living room when we went in there. I had a view of the Eames chair and the spot where she'd danced for me and it was like an echo of her dance was going on the whole time we were sitting there. I couldn't stop seeing her breasts in my mind or how fluid her hips swiveled.

She had sat across from me, curled into the opposite end of the couch. I was nervous about it, about being on the couch with her, because things were happening; we were picking up speed gradually but undeniably, and sharing a soft planar surface felt like such a blatant suggestion I wondered why I maintained any pretense at all. I think she would've let me fuck her that night if I'd tried.

"Can I ask you something?" she said. "What did you do when you got home? After last time?"

I took a long drink of my beer and didn't look at her. "Come on, Savannah."

"What? Tell me." I couldn't and just shook my head and took another drink. "What, you did something but can't admit you did it?"

I still wasn't about to respond to this line of questioning and instead picked at the red label on my Buckley.

"Were you thinking about me?" A pause for me to respond; hard pass. "Which is really worse, Chris? What you did or admitting it?"

That I could answer. "Neither feels very good, Sav."

"It didn't feel good?" she said, laughing, and my cheeks burned. "It's not like you hurt anyone. You were just thinking. If you were thinking about me I want to know...I wish you would feel what that does to me."

Lord knows I wished I would, too. So did my cock. "I can't do that, honey. I'm your dad."

"But I want you to," she said quietly. "At least tell me what you were thinking about. Were you picturing me dancing? I wanted you to enjoy what you were looking at, Chris."

"Nothing about that was insufficient, Sav. Including enjoyment."

"So you were thinking of me, dancing for you?"

I stayed fixated on that label and shrugged a shoulder. "I thought about that when I left, yeah."

"Did you think about...my breasts? It looked like you liked them." I nodded, because who was I kidding? I was thinking, 'so I thought about what she showed me, so what? That's not weird of anyone, that's just a memory,' which I knew was bullshit.

"What else did you think about me? I want to know." Another dignified refusal to respond. "Did it make you think less of me? Showing you myself like that?"

I had to face her to answer that. "Savannah, no. Not at all. The only person who bears the responsibility and fault and blame here is me, okay? Nothing that happens is your fault. 100 percent. Okay? Will you agree to that?"